


Epiphany

by anonymous_moose



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:44:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_moose/pseuds/anonymous_moose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thane Krios is a patient, careful man. His work demands it. As such, he has problems with uncertainty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epiphany

Thane Krios disliked surprises.

They weren't all bad, of course. Parties, gifts, visitors. There was pleasure to be had in the unexpected. He wasn't blind to that. It was more a matter of course with his particular profession. The familiar was predictable, and predictable was safe. The unknown was not. Parties became ambushes. Gifts became weapons. Visitors became assassins.

As a result, he cultivated a particular routine. Something that he tried to maintain no matter where he found himself. Calisthenics in the morning. Meditation in the afternoon. Weapon maintenance at night. Regardless of the situation.

He left some wiggle room, of course. Rigidity was not a quality the hanar valued in their assassins, and a routine can quickly become a compulsion if left unchecked. So sometimes he stretched after breakfast, cleaned his gun before dinner, or meditated more than once in a day.

Once he arrived on the Normandy, he found he was doing the latter a great deal.

Thane didn't know why, at first. And not knowing troubled him. Which made him meditate more, in a perpetual and very ironic cycle. It wasn't until now, when Shepard had been off the ship for a full day on some particular errand or another on Citadel, that he realized what a fool he had been.

Shepard's conversations had become a part of his routine as much as anything else. She made her rounds every day, always at the same time, presumably once all other pressing ship business had been dispensed with. She sat in the same chair, sighed the same tired sigh, and never stayed longer than forty minutes.

Sometimes she brought tea. Two cups. He had politely declined the first time. The brief flicker of disappointment across her face had been admonishment enough for his manners. She brought tea again the next day, and he had accepted it graciously.

Their talk had ranged far and wide. Past business, some left unfinished. Family and friends. The finer points of their respective cultures. He had learned quite a bit about the history of the human pastime, "baseball," and she had been very interested in the particulars of the annual drell seaside celebration, "Paruheike."

And then there were the times when she did not wish to speak. When she simply asked for quiet and a place to think. He had obliged her. And when she left, he had meditated for hours.

So Shepard was the cause. That much he was certain of. But why? None of her questions had ever bothered him, and he had made certain to observe that he allowed her the same courtesy.

It wasn't worry. Shepard often left the ship without him by her side. The mission parameters dictated the selection of her fireteam, and she chose with analytical precision. On those occasions, he had never had cause to object to any of her choices, if such an objection were his right to raise. Further, Shepard's crew were almost universally competent, to the point that Thane had grown comfortable enough to entrust his own life to them without hesitation.

And Shepard... well. Shepard was a wraith on the battlefield. A demon. Or, perhaps more accurately, a—

Ah. There it is.

Thane opened his eyes and took a deep breath. He would speak to her when she returned. This was a necessity.

* * *

 

It was late when Shepard walked into life support without so much as a knock, smelling of blood and spent heat sinks. Thane's routine dictated that he should have been asleep hours ago. She did not seem at all surprised to see him awake.

She sat in the same seat across from him, sighed the same tired sigh, and said, "I've had it up to here with these people."

"Who, siha?"

"These fucking mercenaries," she said, resting her head in her hands. "I swear to god, even the Citadel has them. The same three fucking bands of helmeted, jackbooted thugs, over and over again. How many people can they possibly employ?"

Thane smiled ever so slightly. "A great deal, in my experience."

Shepard snorted. "Yeah, well, you'd think they would send out a memo or something about me. 'Do not approach, do not engage, simply lie down and wait to die.' "

"That would be more proactive than these sort of people usually are."

She lifted her head from her hands and rested one cheek against a palm, regarding Thane with a tired interest. "Siha?"

A strange flutter in his stomach. He quashed it, and the memory it evoked.

"One of the warrior-angels of the goddess Arashu," he said simply. "Fierce in wrath. A tenacious protector."

Shepard hummed. "Sounds like me."

"That was my thought as well."

She said nothing more, so neither did he. They spent a few minutes simply staring at each other. Thane might have thought this would make her uncomfortable—sentient species often seemed unnerved by his stare—but Shepard seemed not to care at all. In fact, if the flush at her cheeks was any indication...

Flushed skin. Amber eyes flashing. Hands wrapped around each other. Chasing, racing, towards—

Thane closed his eyes and bit down hard on his tongue. He was a fool for not seeing what this was sooner.

"Are you okay?" Shepard asked gently.

"Siha, I—"

"You called your wife siha, didn't you."

The primary difference between the two of them, Thane had come to realize, was that he was a knife and Shepard was a blunt instrument. Sometimes a situation called for one more than the other.

"I have known"—and loved—"two sihas in my life. Few are privileged to meet even one."

"I'm not Irikah."

Thane opened his eyes. Shepard appeared. . .weary. Not tired. And fearful, perhaps, that she had broken something.

"You need not remind me," Thane said. "I can remember everything about her. I often do."

Shepard visibly swallowed, eyes averted. "Right. Forgot."

There was another silence. Brief, but long enough to hurt.

"I'm sorry," she said, moving to stand. "It wasn't right for me to—I should let you sleep."

Thane's hand had rarely moved faster, and his grip rarely been more gentle, than in that moment. Shepard looked down at the hand wrapped around her wrist as though it were a stranger's. Her gaze thankfully softened before it reached his eyes.

"You needn't leave," Thane said. Then, after a moment's consideration of his actions, withdrew his hand and bowed his head. "Unless you wish to."

Shepard did not let a silence build for long. For that, Thane was grateful. Every passing moment he could feel his mind begin to slip backwards in time. Without an anchor, he feared he would spend the night in solipsistic melancholy.

"Do you want me to stay?" she asked.

Thane knew with some degree of certainty when he should be honest. He feared it as he feared any vulnerability. As he feared uncertainty.

But he hoped, in the tremulous nature of her voice, in the way she stood at the edge of the desk with her fingers just brushing the surface, in the mirror he saw in her eyes, that he could be certain of this.

"Very much," he said. "I would like that very much, siha."


End file.
